


a western (a downright shoot-em-up)

by Anonymous



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:00:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25945492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: They arrive at the hotel separately, sometimes Andrés makes him wait for hours.But during sex, they come together.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 10
Kudos: 91
Collections: Anonymous





	a western (a downright shoot-em-up)

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: unhealthy coping mechanisms, scars, cheating, homelessness mention, blood and injuries, references to drugs and addictions
> 
> pls take care of urself

Martín has a bruise on his arm. He pokes at it, hisses in pain. It hurts like a motherfucker. He doesn't know how he even got it.

They lie in hotel beds together, only in hotel rooms.

After sex, Andrés likes to smoke.

"You're such a fucking cliché," Martín says.

Andrés passes the cigarette to him.

His throat hurts. It doesn't hurt enough.

"You should fuck my throat," Martín says. " _It doesn't hurt enough._ "

Andrés gets up. Gets dressed.

They lie in hotel beds together, Andrés and Martín. They love quick and easy. Andrés always leaves.

Martín lights another cigarette. He chases the taste of Andrés' mouth with each inhale.

He puts it out on his arm. He hears himself hiss, but he doesn't feel the pain.

*

Andrés has a wife.

Andrés always fucks Martín like there is no tomorrow.

Martín feels like there is no tomorrow, when he comes.

They arrive at the hotel separately, sometimes Andrés makes him wait for hours.

But during sex, they come together.

Andrés has his hand on Martín's throat, barely squeezing.

Martín wants Andrés to crush his fucking windpipe.

If Martín is to die, he wants Andrés to be the one to kill him.

After it's done, Andrés always falls on the bed beside Martín, panting.

He lights a cigarette.

So much cigarette smoke that it's like a fog has settled in the room.

"You're such a fucking tease," Martín says, brushing his cold toes against Andrés' leg.

Andrés chuckles. "Shut the fuck up," he replies.

"I'm serious," Martín says. Andrés passes the cigarette to him.

He inhales the smoke, doesn't exhale as he speaks, "if you're going to have your hand on my throat, you better squeeze next time."

"Noted," Andrés whispers. He gets up.

Martín talks too much. He always makes Andrés leave.

With the cigarette in his hands, Martín watches Andrés get dressed. There is a certain elegance to Andrés, always. Even when he is picking up his shirt from the ground to find one of the buttons missing.

"Martín," he starts. Martín rises up in the bed, feels a little like he is floating. Andrés' jaw is clenched. "How do you expect me to explain _this_?"

Martín shrugs. "Tell her a tranny robbed you for drug money."

Andrés sighs.

Martín makes grabby hands. "Come on, give me your wallet."

Trust me, he almost says.

He doesn't. It would be funny, to expect Andrés to trust him.

Andrés takes his shit out of his wallet, keeps the money in. Throws it at Martín.

Martín should feel dirty about that, maybe.

He doesn't. He just wants to pay his bills.

"No drugs," Andrés warns. He really does think Martín is a drug addict.

Martín rolls his eyes. "Yes, sir," he replies.

He manages to lure Andrés back to bed. Take his clothes off all over again.

He presses his mouth on every inch of Andrés' skin. Traces every scar with his lips.

Suck on that, Sofia, he thinks. Comes too passionately, too fast.

*

The bruise on his arm is still there. It has swollen, now.

Martín can't quite stop poking it.

"Stop that," Andrés says. Reaches out and takes Martín's hand in his own.

Martín just annoyed Andrés enough, it seems. Still, it feels like something else, Andrés holding his hand like this, while they pant next to each other, Andrés' cum still fresh on Martín's skin.

"You're just like a child," Andrés says, turning Martín's arm around, examining it.

Martín chuckles. "What does that make you, considering you just banged me into the fucking bed?"

Andrés doesn't think it's that funny.

He is counting, lips moving just a hint.

The number is higher than the last time Andrés counted. They both know it.

They both wait until Andrés stops counting.

"I wish you wouldn't do this to yourself," Andrés says.

"Yeah, well," Martín stretches on the bed, "I wish you fucked my ass right here, right now."

_I wish you would hold me sometimes_ , he thinks.

But for that, Andrés has a wife. Martín is just his dirty whore with too many scars and a 'drug addiction'"

*

They never meet in the same hotel for more than a few times. Andrés is always careful about that.

Martín takes a cab to the hotel Andrés wants to fuck that night, but it's a half an hour drive, and Martín doesn't have that kind of money, he never did.

He gets off the car, runs into the hotel, all the way up the stairs.

By the time he reaches the room, he can't breathe at all, his lungs burning.

He knocks on the door. Falls to the floor, coughing.

It's all those fucking cigarettes Andrés has been giving him. Martín is used to running. He has been running from shit his whole life.

Andrés opens the door, sighs, throws Martín to the bed.

He goes downstairs, finds the cabbie in the lobby, pays him.

"Why did you run in the first place?" Andrés asks Martín, standing in the middle of the room.

Martín is taking off his clothes. He doesn't like how Andrés always stares at him like Martín is a riddle, a math question he doesn't know the answer to.

"I'm an adrenaline junkie," Martín replies, grinning. "Now, do you really want me to take off my pants myself? I thought you were supposed to be a gentleman."

Andrés looks at him for a second too long. Andrés looks away.

"You're tired, Martín," he says.

Martín rolls his eyes so hard he sees his skull.

He has been tired his whole life. He was tired all the other times Andrés fucked him.

"What do you want me to do, take a nap?" They don't come to these hotel rooms to sleep. "Come eat me out."

Andrés takes off his belt.

*

"I'm sorry," Martín says for the hundredth time, probably. "Just let me die."

"Shut up," Andrés replies, his grip on the steering wheel so tight that it must hurt.

The thing is, Martín called Andrés.

"I think I'm about to die," he said, "there's blood everywhere."

Andrés came to get him in minutes.

The thing is, Martín regrets it.

Not the bleeding wound on his arm.

He regrets calling Andrés.

Now that a little time has passed, it's not that bad anymore.

It stopped hurting. Martín feels light-headed, like he is a feather, about to fly with the wind.

"I'm bleeding all over your car seats." He says.

" _Martín_ ," Andrés starts, with that tone. When Andrés says Martín like that, sometimes it means stop teasing, sometimes it just means stop.

"How are you going to explain it to Sofia?" He slurs. Tries to bury his face into the car seat, tries to disappear.

He is really dizzy.

He passes out.

He dreams about Andrés kicking him out of the car, leaving him on the side of the road, like a wounded soldier in a battlefield, bleeding to death.

He wakes up.

Andrés is holding his hand.

Martín pulls it back. Wakes Andrés.

The time must be late.

Martín drinks some water, forces himself to swallow; he is used to swallowing anyway.

"Sofia is so going to know what's up," he jokes.

Andrés just stares at him. Martín stares back.

Martín is the first to look away.

"I told her I'm on a business trip."

It almost sounds like a joke, to Martín. "No way she bought that," he says, just to get a reaction out of Andrés, but before the man can give him what he wants, give him anything at all, Martín passes out again.

This time he doesn't dream.

*

Andrés takes Martín back home.

He purses his lips at the state of Martín's apartment.

Martín goes to put on the kettle, to make them coffee. He doesn't know what else to do, with Andrés in his house.

The man sticks out like a sore thumb, with all that elegance.

Martín's rug hasn't been washed for decades, chairs are hanging from his ceiling.

"If you want to use the bathroom, just letting you know right now it has no light," he speaks, to fill the empty air, "so you will have to take a shit with the door open."

Andrés raises an eyebrow, simply looks at Martín.

Martín chuckles, getting out the mugs, the coffee, keeping himself busy. "Remember when you got mad at me for taking a shit? Good times."

Andrés doesn't reply for a few minutes.

Then, "I remember," he says.

It feels like he is saying something else. Martín tries not to think about it.

He doesn't have a cup that's not chipped at someplace, so he just shrugs and decides to roll with it.

"When was the last time you washed these?" Andrés asks, pursing his lips.

Martín rolls his eyes. "The dust adds to the flavour," he replies.

Andrés throws him a horrified look.

"That was a joke," Martín chuckles, grins, his lips are throbbing.

Andrés takes a sip of the coffee. Barely grimaces.

Martín counts it as a win.

"Thank you, by the way," he says, then, his own cup in his shaking hands.

His left hand might never stop shaking again. Nerve damage.

"For not letting me die." He shrugs.

Andrés gets this look in his eyes. It's not quite right. It doesn't fit his face. It makes Martín uncomfortable, he almost looks away.

Andrés looks sad.

He puts his cup down on the counter. "I wish you had called me sooner," he replies. Takes Martín's cup too, as Martín stands there frozen.

He didn't know he could just call Andrés.

Andrés has been the one making the calls this whole time.

Then, Andrés is kissing him, and Martín is bone-deep tired, exhaustion seeped into his skin, but he forces himself to kiss back.

This is the first time they've kissed in a place that isn't a hotel room.

It feels like the beginning of something.

Martín can't stop thinking about how all beginnings are also ends.

He reaches out with his right hand, knows his left doesn't work quite right yet, and tries to unzip Andrés' pants.

Andrés grabs his wrist, gently. Pulls back from the kiss like something burned him.

It's Martín. He is a fire, he destroys everything he touches.

"Sorry," Martín says, for a lack of anything else to do. Licks his lips.

He has to pull his arm away from Andrés, because the man is standing frozen like a painting, or a statue. He certainly has the looks for it.

They stand there for a second, before Andrés reaches forward again. This time, he doesn't put his hand on the back of Martín's neck to pull him into a kiss. He just brushes back the strands of hair plastered against Martín's forehead.

His hand travels down, to Martín's cheek, to Martín's chin.

Martín shivers from head to toe. He has to close his eyes because of the sudden tears burning them.

He has to grit his teeth.

He takes a step back. And then another.

"I'm tired," he says, voice hoarse.

Andrés looks away.

Martín goes to bed, and cries as silently as he can, face pressed against his pillow.

When Martín cries, he sounds awfully like his mom.

He wakes up in the middle of the night, his wrists aching, a dull pain.

His mouth is dry.

He goes to the kitchen.

On the couch: Andrés.

On the counter: their abandoned mugs, with the coffee still in them, ice-cold at this point.

Martín swallows his painkillers, downs both the mugs and then puts them in the sink.

He stays in the kitchen for minutes, just staring.

The moonlight through the window paints Andrés' face grey.

Martín understands what Andrés is doing then. He tells himself he won't allow it.

He doesn't sleep the whole night. When the sun finally comes up, he goes to the living room.

He wakes Andrés up with small kisses. Then blows him until he forgets his own name.

Andrés wants to return the favour but Martín doesn't let him.

Being touched hurts. _Being touched by Andrés_ hurts.

*

"Look," he says, raising his leg up. "I have another bruise. I don't know how I keep getting them."

"It doesn't look as bad as the one on your arm at least," Andrés says.

Martín shrugs, lowers his leg, stretches on the bed.

Andrés doesn't look like he is leaving. Martín wonders if he can go for round two. Knows he can force himself to even if he doesn't feel like it.

"How are you feeling?" Andrés asks then, so suddenly. It startles Martín, the question.

How is he feeling? How the fuck is he supposed to answer that?

"I'm feeling horny," he says, rolls to his side. He stares at Andrés' side profile, the curve of his nose, the sharpness of his jaw.

Andrés turns to look at him.

"Martín," he says. That's just Martín's name. It feels more than that.

"What?" Martín snaps. "I feel _great_."

Andrés moves to get up. Martín grabs his wrist.

"Don't leave," he says.

Andrés gets this weird look in his eyes, something soft, something Martín can't name.

"I told you I'm horny."

Andrés leaves.

*

Martín is sitting in the bathtub when Andrés arrives.

"You said you wished I had called you earlier," Martín says immediately. Like it's an accusation. "See? I called you."

"I'm glad you did," Andrés says. He is looking at Martín like someone would look at a ticking time bomb. "What's wrong?"

Martín almost laughs. "What isn't?" He starts biting his nails.

"No, don't close the door." Andrés stops. "I told you, the light is broken."

"Okay," Andrés says, opens the door wider. "Tell me what's wrong."

Martín stretches his legs.

I just wanted to know if you actually meant it.

I just wanted to know if you would actually come.

He doesn't say any of that.

"You've been acting weird," he says. A sudden edge to his tone.

Andrés raises his eyebrows. Kneels beside the tub.

He takes Martín's arm and examines it. He is counting again. He doesn't need to. They both can see the fresh scar on Martín's skin winking at them.

"Weird how?" Andrés asks. He raises Martín's hand, presses a gentle kiss on it.

Martín pulls his hand back, holds it close to his chest, like it’s wounded.

"Like that," he says, looking at Andrés with wide eyes. His heart is beating fast. He doesn't know why he is so scared all of a sudden.

Andrés is starting to look concerned. "Like what?"

"Andrés, what do you think this is?"

Martín flexes his fingers. Andrés blinks at him.

"You're supposed to fuck me and then move on. What are you doing here, kissing my fucking hand?" His voice is loud now. His throat hurts. Martín isn't used to speaking loudly with Andrés. He doesn't know what changed.

"You called me--"

" _Why did you fucking come?_ "

Andrés stands up. There is an ugly expression on his face. "Forgive me for being worried you would slit your wrists again."

Martín laughs.

"I don't need your fucking pity," he says, he snarls.

"You think this is pity?"

Martín doesn't care about what it is. He just wants it _gone_.

"If you're not going to fuck me, get the fuck out," he says, then. "I didn't call you here to get a therapy session."

Andrés leaves.

He closes the bathroom door on his way out. Leaves Martín swallowed in darkness.

Martín buries his head in his hands, pulls on his hair.

He hears the door slam shut.

He only allows himself to cry just then.

*

Andrés doesn't call him for two weeks.

Martín wonders if the man will ever call him again.

He decides to text Andrés.

_I miss you,_ he types. Stares at it. Delete the message.

_I miss your cock, daddy._ That's more like it.

Andrés doesn't reply.

*

Martín calls him, at 12 o'clock sharp.

"Yes?" Andrés replies.

Martín just breathes in, out.

"Hello?"

Martín feels a lot like crying for a second.

"Martín?" Andrés asks, then. "Is that you?"

Martín chuckles. His hand is on his chest, pressing down on his heart. He wants to hurt. He wants Andrés to hurt him.

"How did you know?" He sniffs. Wipes the tears off his cheeks.

Andrés huffs out a breath. "I know the way you breathe."

It sounds like he is saying _I know you._

Martín tries not to think about that.

"Did you get my text?" He is anxious as he speaks, rubbing at his arms. The phone is on speaker, laying down on the bed next to him, just to fill an empty space.

"I did," Andrés says simply.

"You didn't reply--" Martín's voice breaks towards the end. He curses at himself, presses his hands against his face, now, he doesn't want to cry.

Andrés is silent for almost a minute. Then, he sighs.

"You know I don't like it when you call me daddy," he says.

A sob breaks free of Martín like a cough.

"Can I come over?"

Martín sobs again.

Come over and destroy me, he wants to say.

Come over and fuck me until I can't breathe, he wants to say.

_Come over and just hold me,_ he wants to say.

"Please," he only manages to get out.

"I'm on my way," Andrés replies, he starts moving.

Andrés doesn't allow Martín to hang up. Keeps him busy. Keeps him talking.

Martín knows what Andrés is worried about.

He knows what they are both worried about, all the time.

*

"Sorry for calling you yesterday," he says. He says on the phone, because he called Andrés again. "Sorry for calling your right now."

He chuckles.

"I'm sorry, but who is this?" A very female voice asks.

Martín hangs up.

He goes to the bathroom, crawls, really, and he throws up.

Then he fills the bathtub with cold water, and closes the door.

In total darkness, he sits. He tries to drown himself a few times, but it's half-hearted.

If he was brave enough, he would actually do it.

He isn't.

*

Martín has one hell of a cold. Even swallowing hurts, makes him gag with how painful it is.

He takes time off work. "I'll make it up to you," he tells the manager.

"You better," the man replies.

Owing _him_ means a lot of things. At this point, Martín doesn't care.

Martín has been homeless since he was 17, and he is 27 now. He is used to a lot of things.

Still, he wants to say _fuck you_. Say fuck you, you fucking piece of shit, and hang up, and never go back to that shitty diner he works at ever again.

He can't.

Martín has an engineering degree. He graduated the top of his class.

All the while he was homeless, all the while he had to crash at stranger's couches, all the while starving every day.

He never once sold his body.

He doesn't know what changed.

He used to have a drive. He used to have a passion.

After he graduated, something inside him shifted.

He thinks it might have been the guy he dated. The guy maybe took something from Martín, reached inside Martín and plucked it out, and Martín can never fill that empty space again--

He doesn't know what changed, why he feels this way, why he does the things he does. He just thinks it makes sense.

"I'll make it up to you," he says. He doesn't care.

*

He tries to kill himself, once again, and then once again. It never sticks.

He calls Andrés, over the years. He tries and he tries, but he never reaches the man.

The number doesn't exist, the voice on the phone tells him.

Martín breaks two phones because of that.

He ends up beating the shit out of Gus. Almost kills the guy.

Then he runs away. He robs a jewellery store, he doesn't even know why he does it--

It just comes easy to him, stealing.

He leaves Buenos Aires.

Only years later does it hit him, when he tries calling Andrés again, that he was in love with him.

Martín was in love with Andrés.

And then it hits him, that Andrés cared for him too.

He almost feels like crying. But he has been crying a lot less, lately.

He just goes to the bathroom and takes a nice, hot shower. His bathroom has a light. It's nice.

He goes to jail one time. But they can't connect him to all his other work, so he doesn't stay very long.

It takes years, but he finally makes a name for himself.

He's a good engineer. He's always been better at math than anything else.

It takes years, but he heals.

He doesn't know how he does it.

It doesn't make sense.

One day, he is trying to drown himself in a fucking pool in some rich guy's backyard, one day he is beating the shit out of Gus, one day he is robbing a jewellery store, one day he is in Palermo, Sicily, and one day, it doesn't hurt that much.

The scars on his wrists, on both arms, they feel like a distant memory.

He counts them, from time to time.

Counting them reminds him of Andrés.

It calms him, how the number doesn't change.

He grows a moustache, he keeps it for almost a year, proud of himself for being able to grow a moustache, and then he gets rid of it.

He does a lot of heists, big and small.

He sleeps with a lot of guys. Dates some of them.

One time, one of them tries to hit him, and Martín breaks the guy's arm, then throws him out into the street, in the pouring rain.

Years pass. He thinks about Andrés, a lot.

You never forget your first, he thinks. His first love, the first man that probably cared about him.

Then one day, some weird guy shows up at his house.

The Professor. He has a crazy idea, a brilliant one.

Of course Martín says yes.

He walks into the classroom, and sees someone sitting in one of the chairs, legs open wide, wearing an expensive suit. Even from the back of his head, Martín recognizes him.

He only huffs out a surprised breath, but it's enough for Andrés to turn around, look at him with wide eyes.

Martín, a ghost from the past.

Martín, the man Andrés abandoned years ago, without even saying goodbye.

Yet Andrés still remembers the way Martín breathes.

It's the beginning of something. Or maybe, the end.

fin.

**Author's Note:**

> yikes
> 
> pls let me know if ive forgotten a trigger warning and hope u..... enjoyed. lmao


End file.
